The sting not the burn dear
by Jolly jamacian janitor
Summary: John's left for two weeks, and Holmes has just been Holmes. He has a broken rib and magical experimental alcohol


It was a translucent solution, and Holmes stood amung the rubble completely satisfied perhaps a broken rib but it just tasted a bit irony in his mouth, and a throwing up kinda feeling but in his hand was his wonderful, experimental alcohol. Tastes like gin, only twice as strong. His bruses of course were cause by a drunkin curiosity to see what would happen if two highly touchly chemical's were combined in a small glass beaker, now he knows not to, because there's glass in his broken rib, but this gin is so damn strong that it's still worth it. Of course Sherlock in all his drunking glory falls, quite luckily on his back about 2 minutes before John Watson returns home, well to what used to be a home, from a two week vacation with Mary, 'the sophisticated woman of _his_ dreams' as Holmes would spitefully spit at the fireplace, a little drunker each night, barking at his still dog, Mrs. Hudson stopped bothering him about the mess after she saw him cry for the first time. That was the time in fact, that stopped giving a shit what the bible said, Sherlock was happy, and sane, with John. Mary would've been the same either way.

"Sherlock!"

John said, praying that he'd could save this man... so he could kill him so much more painfully. He struggled the faint detective to the couch, laying him so his lungs wouldn't fill with blood, just incase he'd done some real bad damage, he worked into the night. Crawling all over his friends body. Of course in a completely strait fashion, sure he'd grazed his lips a few times, and like to, when bored and tired, run his finger along Holme's neck to laugh at the goose bumps and imagine Holmes in a state his would show such disruption and fear. Holmes woke in a haze, pain and abandonment issues sparked through him, until he relized, that a finger was running along his shoulder in a molestive kind of way and he might be in prison, and he may be raped, and he still only would give thought to this pounding in his head.

"Your awake"

"You're good"

Holmes smiled at his sancuary's return, and the intensive care that his friend and gave to him, stiches pulling at his chest.

"I am your doctor"

They smiled, John loving into his eyes, and Sherlock basking in the joy of two minds to place his thoughts, and something to watch whenever things got boring.

"right now that your better, what have have you done?"

"It's very simple, I invented a stronger alcohol, I ran out of coke you see.. and damn I missed it but I missed you more.. or perhaps equally"

"How was your trip?"

"Quiet"

"I knew you missed me"

"Well I'm going to sleep like a normal person, despite the fact that I live with a lunatic"

Holmes stood up, regreting it immediatly and wobbled after his fading doctor.

"John!"

Holmes pointed a wavering finger after his doctor,

"Thats no place to leave a sick man!"

"is your room suitable for sleeping?"

"Of course not"

"so where do you intend to sleep?"

Sherlock signalled John upstairs

"I'll show you"

John grimmanced but followed the short and damaged man up the stairs

"To the left this time"

"Holmes your not sleeping in my room"

"No..no why would I put such pressure on you?"

Sherlock opened the door to reveil paper and ink spilt in an unbelievably amount. John was doubting this was any sort of accident.

"I thought this was my study room"

"You've never had a study room"

"Exactly, what other room would I think it was."

Poor Watson sighed, a remourseful patient sigh

"I'm sleeping in your bed"

"Ah yes... come"

"Not with you."

"I'm injured"

"Self injury Holmes."

The doctor swiftly tred into the room, a few papers blowing off oddly placed shelves- probably Holmes more hallucenigenic work, with a limping genuis behind him.

"You can't sleep here Holmes"

John muttered placing his jacket on the bed post

"Watson"

"What Holmes"

John responded disinterestly

"Your not as good as telling when I'm awake as you think"

The air stilled. Watson's hands stopped and continued, much more tensed Holmes inquired.

"why would that convince me to let you sleep in here"

"You know its let me sleep here now or I'll destroy something else downstairs"

Sherlock strode non-challantly to the opposing side of the bed crawling in wary of his wounds

"Well I don't care where you sleep"

And as the man was used to after years of living with this, to say the least, this eccentric man, he learned to comprimise, espesially if it meant Holmes would sleep. The warmth of the detectives body flooded around John as he crawled in, Watson eventually drifted into a deep slumber, weary from his trip, and more likely coming home to a half dead Sherlock. It was around 5 a.m. when Holmes dubbed it safe to turn, for the past hour or so, watson's steady breath had been warmly beating against the upper region of his back, and now if was brushing over his face. He really could stare now, there wasn't that unnessasary need to converse for time to gaze and appreceate. The intimacy of the moment always sent Sherlock's mind racing, pushing everything through an automactic filter, and pressing out along the everlasting lines across the unblemished skin, quite womanly skin he carried you for a man. To touch it on a late night gamble of luck, was always an exhelerating experience. He'd never been caught before, although everytime he ventured his hand, it was as risky as the last, heart bounding his ears, each one was mutually dangerous and untred. His fingers shivered at the contact, almost gasping, it felt facinating. The pads of his fingers slid along his jaw, sculpted and illuminated by the moonlight. And if was so thrilling, so sensational that he pulled himself closer. Shamefully enough brushing a half erection onto John's stomache. Ravishing his shoulder now, digging deep into the real and exciting flesh between his index and middle finger

"Holmes what are you doing?"

A sleep ridden but just the same shocked mumble flood John's lips as Holmes pulled himself up to them

"Oh nothing, You can just fall back asleep"

Brushing his hand to the back John's head and pulling himself up close, unbearably close, infact, neasuously close.

Holmes threw up.

His wounds had to be repatched, which was after John spent a silent twenty minutes changing his clothes, rinsing his mouth, and sewing his chest.

"I wasn't drunk in there.."

Watson shot a scournful look

"Not really... anyways, offers still there"

Watson abrutly stood up.

"Good night Holmes"

As he reached the door he turned,

"I shan't report you my friend. Sleep well"

"How considerate"

"I know to be gentle with my Holmes"

"Just keep that in mind when I'm not drunk and majorly injured"

"That'll be the day Holmes. Try to stay off your broken rib"

With that, the doctor went to sleep of the minorly bloody couch.


End file.
